


live and die by the sword

by Kangoo



Category: Arthurian Mythology, La Légende du Roi Arthur - Savio & Skread & Zaho/Chouquet/Attia
Genre: Knighting With Benefits, M/M, Magical Bond, Poor Bedside Manners, Sworn Shield Maleagant, brief summary of who maleagant is inside, for people who don't want to suffer through an entire french musical
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-29
Updated: 2019-07-29
Packaged: 2020-07-25 17:15:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20029420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kangoo/pseuds/Kangoo
Summary: Arthur keeps handing his swords to people, unaware of the significance





	live and die by the sword

**Author's Note:**

> all you need to know for this thing is: 
> 
> \- [Maleagant](https://live.staticflickr.com/1581/26477061715_a797f0a428_b.jpg) [is](https://redcdn.net/hpimg11/pics/348869IGP3613.jpg) [stupid](https://i.ytimg.com/vi/4e9ficjYrxA/maxresdefault.jpg) [hot](https://image.jimcdn.com/app/cms/image/transf/none/path/s361bbb6686fd62c6/image/i2e96e9f30f045720/version/1537006120/image.jpg) (and tries to take over the throne one or twice or twenty times... also he kidnaps Guinevere once and they sing a bop)  
\- [Arthur](http://www.chartsinfrance.net/style/breves/3/photo_1441787570.jpg) is just stupid  
\- also the knighting thing is canon. they fight and they maleagant knights arthur. why? because why the fuck not
> 
> that's it's! that's the musical. enjoy
> 
> title is from By The Sword by Slash

There's is something deeply meaningful in a knight handing his sword to another. It's not only the symbol of his nobility: in battle, a sword is all that stand between a knight and death. Without it, he can't protect himself. By giving it to another, he gives him the mean to strike him down while disarming himself.

Gives him his life, the ability to protect or end it.

It's not a risk most knights are comfortable taking. Even brother-in-arms may be wary of leaving themselves unprotected, if only from outside threats.

Arthur, of course, has no idea. It's one of the many things he didn't know when he became king. He wasn't raised a sword in hand. He wasn't even raised a noble, only a squire to his brother. He knows what a sword does. It's a weapon. A knight's sword or a woodsman’s ax aren't that far apart in terms of use. They cut things and that's about the gist of it. Mostly he's aware of what a sword represents to the people, the farmers, even the blacksmith that forged it. It's nobility. Power. Knighthood.

He doesn’t know what a sword _means_.

And Arthur really, really wants to be a knight. Wants to earn the title, more than inherit it; that's how it's always been, in his mind. One can only be made a knight, not become one of his own volition.

That's why it doesn't quite register, when he takes Excalibur, that this is it. He's a knight now. To him, he only got the sword and none of the power and duty that comes with it.

He tries asking Gawain, first, and is confused by his protests.

"I am not worthy of this sword," the knight explains, half bowing in deference. 

"Yes you are. I'm handing it to you," he replies, puzzled.

"No, I– I can't. I'm sorry, sire." He goes to explain, maybe, either himself or the situation.

Arthur waves him off with a tired sigh. "Leave me."

"But –"

"I want to be alone," he snaps.

Gawain leaves without another word.

It hurts, still, that he'd refuse. Hasn't Arthur proved himself already? Isn't he worthy of the title, the responsibility? Wasn't the sword trial and proof enough?

And if Gawain was telling the proof, if he's truly not worthy of the sword–

If he can only be knighted by someone his equal or above him–

Who will knight him, he who was already crowned king?

(It never crosses his mind to be satisfied by that much. King isn't enough. Nothing will ever be, with his heart set on knighthood.)

-

No knight worth his salt as ever handed Maleagant his sword in anything but defeat.

He doesn't begrudge them their lack of trust: he's not exactly a trustworthy man. They may trust in his strength, his cleverness, but his character? They're not foolish enough for that.

Excepted for Arthur Pendragon, apparently.

He looks up the long blade presented to him hilt first, to the bloody, ashen face watching him wearily. The… _king_ holds himself awkwardly, half cradling the wound of his stomach, but the offer is made with complete confidence.

A desperate kind of it, nonetheless.

Surely it must be the blood loss, Maleagant thinks as he struggles to his feet, beaten and bruised. Or it's a trick. That must be it.

But Arthur's eyes are earnest as he says, "Take it and make me your equal."

The would-be king knighting the rightful heir... Ironic, in a way, but fitting.

He takes the sword, gingerly. Excalibur is lighter in his hands than he expected it to be. As if it would go back to its previous immovability at his contact.

There's a bitter, angry weight in his chest as he lifts the sword, poising for a strike. The other knights shift, drawing theirs–

Arthur only kneels, silent, expectant.

He doesn't know what it means to hand his sword, but... Maybe a part of him does, still.

(He can never say no to a pretty man on his knees.)

An invisible fish hook catches onto the underside of his ribs, pulling him half a step forward, closer yet–

He chokes out the ritual words. "Arthur Pendragon. By Excalibur... I make you a knight of Britain."

A shock goes up his arm, sparking from the point of contact between his palm and the hilt. Excalibur almost seems to sing, clear and brief as a silver bell before it settles in a low, comforting hum.

He throws the accursed blade at Arthur's feet. It clatters to the ground, no more than mere metal, but it's still a phantom weight in Maleagant's hand, warm right through his gloves. 

It's unfair. It's so, so unfair, that he would be given Arthur's life on a silver platter and could only give it back to him. He wishes he could plunge his own sword through the damned king's throat and paint the cobblestone blue with his royal blood.

There's old magic at work here, wrapping around his bones. He knows it, son of old magic as he is himself.

He held his king's life in his hands and deemed it just and worthy enough to save and give back whole. It's as good as an oath on his own life and honor.

His hand spasms at the thought of bathing fresh, hot blood. The old hunger, tampered like a fine blade by the curious wrongness the idea inspires him. Arthur, dead, is no longer something he can achieve himself. Not when Excalibur offered it to him and he refused, all because he was– 

What? Too honor-bound to strike a foe who already bested him? Or to afraid to fall at the hand of the dozen other knights loyal to the king?

It doesn't matter. Pride and cowardice are equal admissions of defeat, and defeat means servitude.

(This is how you tame a wolf: early enough it doesn't realize you're a threat yet, with a gentle hand and a steel resolve.)

Arthur rises to his feet, wavers, collapses, blood loss finally hitting him. Gawain surges forward to hold him up. Maleagant is closer. He catches Arthur easily, lowering him to the ground with more gentleness than he deserves.

"Put him down," Gawain snarls.

Maleagant sighs wearily. Gingerly he shifts his hold until he can lift Arthur in what he's unwilling to call a bridal carry. "He needs medical attention, and quick. He's bleeding out."

"Because of you!"

"And it will be your fault if he dies now."

It shuts the argument effectively. How sweet it is, to be feared still, if only for the power he holds on their king.

Guinevere is sweeter still as she takes a step forward. "Bring him inside and I can tend to his wounds."

Sweet and far out of his reach, even if she was promised to him. Already it feels as if his bones are turning to steel, too sharp and jagged to be held. Excalibur burns in the corner of his vision like the afterimage left by the sun.

He stubbornly refuses to look at it. The capricious thing can rust for all he cares.

-

This time, when Arthur wakes up, it's not to Genevieve's angelic face and the brush of a wet cloth on his feverish forehead.

Instead he wakes up to Maleagant's thunderous face as the witch-knight jabs him in the side with his pointy gauntlet.

He protests the rough treatment weakly before the situation registers and he attempts to sit up. "What-"

Maleagant makes an annoyed sound, low in his throat, and pushes him back down with a hand on his chest. "Do you have a single idea what you did?" He snaps, more wolf than man for the span of an enraged breath. His face is cast in impossible shadows, too dark and fey for his traits. "Handing the sword of kings to anyone passing by, expecting them to knight you and be done with it!"

He twists a wet cloth as he speaks, putting all his anger and frustration into wringing it.

That's when he realizes he's half naked. And Maleagant, for some obscure reason, is helping him rather than finishing him off.

"What-" He coughs. His dry throat won't let more than that single word slips out. He scowls in frustration.

"Shut up, for once, that will do you some good."

He's tempted to try again, if only to be contrary, but a truly thunderous look from Maleagant makes his jaw snap shut on its own accord.

He takes a moment to study the other knight, instead. Maleagant looks the same as ever, his delicate face drawn in a resentful expression that his long hair can't properly cover. His armor still glint beetle-black, the skull on the pauldron glaring back when his eyes settle upon it.

His handsome features don't make him any less of a fearful sight. If anything they make it worse: there's something off about him, something strange and fey weaved in the inky hair, glinting in the depth of his green eyes.

Witch-knight, they called him in court, only in whispers, as if afraid of summoning him. _Sorcerer, changeling, bargain-child_.

He can't help to wonder if there was any truth to those rumors. But Maleagant is oddly... Not gentle, but careful as he treats his wound. He cuts off the dirty bandages in a single, graceful twist of a knife and sets to cleaning the wound with brusque but light movements. Arthur winces at the sting, which doesn't elicit any sympathy. He hisses between his teeth when Maleagant prods his stitches, sending a jolt of pain up his spine. His lips twist, not quite happy but satisfied of the work.

Silence lingers as Maleagant wraps clean bandages around his middle and ties it in a strong knot.

Finally he seems to take pity of Arthur, though he avoids his eyes too much for his intentions to be read easily. With one hand he brings Arthur to a sitting position. He bears his weight easily, his gloved fingers splayed over his back. With the other hand he brings a goblet of water to his lips and tilts it slightly, forcing Arthur to swallow slowly despite his thirst.

When the goblet is empty and Arthur feels less like his throat is filled with sand, he rocks back on his heels. His hand trails over Arthur's back, slow to let go in case he is too weak to stay upright by himself. For a moment he seems engrossed in the simple act of putting away the goblet, setting it down with infinite care and never letting it out of his sight, as if it were the Graal itself.

"What are you doing?" Arthur finally managed to ask. His voice sounds raspy from disuse even to his own ears.

"Cleaning up," Maleagant innocently replies. 

"What happened?" He asks instead, hoping a different wording will make Maleagant more likely to answer.

Maleagant wrings out the bloody rag over the basin one last time before a great sigh seems to take over him. His shoulders drop with it, and the rag slips through his fingers and land in the pinkish water with a splash he doesn't seem to register.

"What do you _think_ happened?" He asks back, seemingly out of the blue. "You handed me Excalibur, gave me your sword, and asked me to knight you. Heedless of the threat I represented, especially armed while you were not."

"You didn't kill me, though. You're tending to my wounds right now."

A glimpse of– something flashes in his eyes. Some complicated, incomprehensible emotion like a lightning strike. His fingers tense, the only outward sign of his agitation. When he speaks his voice is strained, almost shaking in his effort to remain calm and unaffected.

"You gave me... Maybe the most powerful magical artifact of the isles, yours by right of blood. And had me make you my equal." There's a weight to his words. Like he can't believe what happened himself. He repeats, "What do you think happened?"

Arthur groans. _Nobles_, with their mind games and twisting words and refusal to say things straight. "I don't know, that's why I asked. And I didn't make you do anything. You could have refused."

"You fought me and won. Whatever you asked, I was bound to do." Not a lie, but not the whole truth either. He can taste it, unexpectedly, like bitter wine at the back of his throat. "And so I did. Congratulations, my king: you are a true knight now."

Maleagant never calls him his king, not since he claimed the crown as his by right and set to bring Arthur down by any means necessary. He seems to read the confusion in Arthur's silence and finally lifts pale, green eyes to meet his.

"You gave me your sword and had me knight you. In the eyes of magic, in accepting to do so, I accepted you as my rightful king as well." He lets out a mirthless chuckle. "The king is dead. Long live the king."

Arthur blinks owlishly. His sleep-muddled brain works through the information slowly, laboriously, like the wheels of a cart stuck in mud.

"So you're not going to fight me for the crown anymore?" He finally asks.

Maleagant casts a willful glance at his side, as if wondering if striking Arthur down right now was worth it. In the end he decides against it.

"No, I won't. I _can't_."

"Why, though?" Oaths never stopped anyone from committing regicide before. Even the most loyal of knights can be swayed by love or money, and Maleagant... Doesn't strike him as the 'most loyal' type.

Maybe Maleagant understands his meaning, or he reads it in his eyes – jumping to his dark armor, his bloodied sword. "Old magic is not so easily disobeyed as Merlin. Even the druid, powerful as he is, answer to someone. Something. Old magic only answers to itself." He looks away, not in shyness but bitter regret. "An oath on Excalibur is an oath on the old magic. No one would be foolish enough to swear on either – except for me, apparently."

"Well, I'm glad." At Maleagant's burning stare, he explains quickly, lifting a placating hand. "I saw you fight, that day, in the tournament. You're a fearful opponent. I'd hate to have to face you in battle again." At this he gestures to the bandages around his middle, a clear example of what would happen were he to fight Maleagant again. "I do prefer my guts to remain inside of my body."

The flattery is far from unfounded and it shocks a chuckle from Maleagant. "I suppose I will have to let you keep them, then."

He rises to his feet with a fluid grace that doesn't even disturb his armor, where another knight would have made at least some kind of clatter. He gathers the water and other healing supplies in his arms and turn on his heels. Arthur is ready to believe he will leave without another word but he stops in the doorway.

"Rest," he orders. "Leodagan insisted on a feast tonight. It would be a shame if you fell asleep in your plate."

Against his better judgment he asks, "What will you do in the mean time?"

But he's already gone.

-

Maleagant is rarely a good man, and he definitely isn't a kind one. That why he grins when he sees Arthur is still sleeping, and empties a bucket of ice cold water over his head to wake him up.

The king sits up with a gasp, spluttering. Rivulets of water drip down his neck, his chest, disappear under his bandages. Maleagant doesn't let himself stare and throw Arthur a towel. It hits him in the face and puts a quick end to his undignified noises. 

"Dry yourself, it's time."

Arthur throws him a mulish glare but complies, or tries too. It's obvious his wound still pains him, and he can't lift his arms much higher than his chest without wincing in pain. 

Taking pity on him – it is, after all, his fault he is wounded – Maleagant kneels to his side and pries the towel from his fumbling hands. He rubs his hair until it is somewhat dry and sticking up every way. 

"It would have been quicker to not throw the water," Arthur says, the pout easy to hear in his voice.

"Yes, but much less amusing. Can you stand?"

Arthur tries, bless his heart, but he can't do much more than sitting up of his own power. He looks up pleadingly.

_Pleadingly._ At _Maleagant_. Dear god, they will eat him alive out there. If he's ready to trust a former enemy so blindly – they were at war less than a week ago –then what of his allies?

Someone, eventually, is bound to take advantage of his naivety. Something in Maleagant recoils at the thought. For better or for worse they're connected now, and he'll be damned if he let anyone abuse his sovereign. 

There's a brand on his soul, claiming him as Arthur's – the same, he expects that will mark all those he knights himself in the future.

He wonders if they will feel it too, pulling taunt against their ribs like harp strings. Ringing in their bones whenever Arthur strums them, a touch or a word, unsaid orders he doesn't notice and Maleagant can't quite escape.

Shaking his head he brings himself back to the present. He takes Arthur's arm over his shoulders and hoist him up. The other man grunts in pain and lays more on Maleagant than on his own weak legs. Holding him up is kind of awkward: their height difference is slight, barely noticeable, but he can feel it all the same as he bends slightly forward.

"If you can't stay up of your own volition, I don't see the point in dragging you down there," he says offhandedly.

Arthur pushes him off. He lets go, amused despite himself at how easy it was. He can't keep the smirk off his face as he watches his king wobble in place, trying to stand on legs weak after days laying down.

This time he doesn't bother letting him dress by himself. They're on a bit of a schedule here. And there are no servants coming to help any time soon. Merlin was quite final in his decision to put Arthur's convalescence his responsibility alone as a punishment of sort for putting him in that state to begin with.

(The damned felt the old magic as soon as he approached Maleagant. He finds the situation all too amusing, if his constant cackling is any indication, and hasn't seen fit to worry about leaving the two of them alone.

He knows there are no reasons to. Whether it's a blessing or a curse remains to be seen.)

Maleagant doesn't waste time dressing Arthur. He stomps down the vague humiliation of acting like a squire or a servant. 

Part of him chafes against the feeling, knowing it could have been him wearing the crown.

The rest thrums with magic, sings with it. He breathes it in, hold his breath, releases it, and goes back to his task. He bats Arthur's fingers away from where they're trying to clumsily tie his laces. Once Arthur gets the hint and stops hindering him he makes quick work of the rest of his outfit. The cloak goes last, covering his lack of armor.

They stand like that for a moment, toes to toes, Maleagant's fingers curled in the ruddy fur around his shoulders.

The black knight looks deep into honest, steel-willed eyes, and makes a choice.

It's one he's already made, he simply hadn't noticed before.

He takes a single step back and slowly, deliberately, kneels. 

"Maleagant–"

"Arthur Pendragon," he intones, cutting him. His eyes linger on the boots in front of him, cataloging the creases in the leather rather than facing Arthur head-on. If he did he's not sure he could do this at all. That rebellious part of him rears up, clawing at the inside of his skull. He chokes out the rest of the sentence before it can break through. "I, Maleagant, pledge myself to you. On my blood and on the old magic I swear to follow you and protect you, in war and in peace, through dangers untold and hardships unnumbered. My sword will be your sword. My shield will be your shield."

Arthur attempts to speak, but he's not done, dammit. He keeps his eyes stubbornly downcast as he continues. "I give everything to you. My arm, so it may guard you. My heart, so it may beat only in your name. My soul, so I may be entirely devoted to you. I shall live to fight for you and die before dishonoring your name."

His blood sings, high and clear as a chorus of silver bells. Eagerness and fear struggle for superiority in his mind, a sickening anticipation sending his heartbeat in a frenzy.

"That sounds more like marriage vows than..." Arthur's voice trails off. He wets his lips, tries again. "Are you sure?"

Finally he lifts his head and looks Arthur dead in the eyes so he may know he means it. "Will you have me, my king? At your side in battle and court, as your sword and shield, a right hand to help you lead in battle and out of it?"

It's a sacrifice for the both of them. Maleagant may lay all he is at his feet, but Arthur entrusts him with his life and kingdom in return. A dangerous bargain to do with any knight, let alone one like Maleagant.

But he has one advantage on the rest of them: he doesn't get a choice on loyalty. It's been thrust upon him and now he must follow wherever it leads, for better or for worse.

"I will have you," Arthur says. First he sounds hesitant but seems to find assurance as he speaks, his eyes never wavering from Maleagant's. "And all that you will give him. I will watch over you as I watch over my kingdom, and never ask of you that you shame yourself. Your honor will be my honor, your name will be my name, your sword an extension of my arm." 

Something snaps into place inside of Maleagant. As if his entire being, unbalanced since he had taken Excalibur, had finally settled. A loose end tying itself around his soul. He lets it sink in, welcomes it. 

Arthur fumbles then, realizing he had to close the ritual somehow and unsure how to do it. He stumbles forward, as if pulled by some invisible strings to close the distance between them. He brings his hands to Maleagant's jaw. They hover there, not quite touching him, before he cups his face.

"Arise, Maleagant, my sworn shield," He whispers.

Maleagant follows the lead of his hands, rising to his feet and resting his forehead against Arthur's. He dares not blink, almost holding his breath until his world becomes nothing more than Arthur's eyes on his, Arthur's breath on his lips.

Arthur opens his mouth to speak. They are drawn closer, until they are almost flush against each other–

The door slams open.

"Arthur-"

Leodegrance stops short at the sight of the two of them. He clears his throat. Slowly, Maleagant turns his face and shoots him a glare so dark he feels his soul cringe back.

He turns on his heels and walk out of the room without ever saying what he came here to say.

When he turns back to Arthur, his king has a dazed look on his face, as if coming out of a dream.

"What was that?" He asks. His hands fell from Maleagant's face to his neck and he digs his nails in without realizing. 

"Magic," Maleagant says, and drags him forward by the front of his cloak to kiss him furiously.

They don't make it to Leodegrance's feast. He very carefully doesn't remark on it.


End file.
